Prompt 13 Hour 10
I found myself quenching my thirst with a canteen filled with concrete. Damn! I might as well step off the dock if I can no longer enjoy my coffee with moonbeams. C. Churchill
Prompt 12: The Thousand And One Nights
Hazjizadi, help me fly.
Tell your tales, help nights go by.
Let your stories fill my dreams.
With your wit share all your schemes.
Hazjizadi tame my anger.
Lead me from all paths that canker.
Stay a thousand nights with me.
Hazjizadi set me free.
Ten Words
While sitting on the dock of the bay,
Watching the fog settle into a gentle hush,
The moonbeam caught my eye.
It reflected off of my canteen
Sitting there on the concrete shelf.
Damn! My coffee is cold.
I walked over to the fir,
Gave it a kick.
Hobbling over, I sat down,
And now I am crying on the dock of the bay.
To Her
She gave her everything she had.
Her thoughts, her clothes
Her entire body.
She gave her all her laughs
All her tears, all the anger
All her frustration.
But the reflection only stared back
Fairy Evening Dance
Daffodils turned to the sun
As fairies tipped
The petals of the daisies
Their laughter was barely a whisper
Their dresses outshone the stars
In the evening sky
Their hair pulled by the wind
In soft fragrant waves
They danced all night
Twisting, turning, fluttering
Lost in the ecstatic joy
Of the moonlight
As dawn approached they scattered
Diving into all the dark nooks
To curl up in bright buttons of chiffon
And sleep until evening comes again
How to Bowl
My grandfather was a bowler
pretty good, in fact
national tournaments
league championship teams
Once he bowled a 299
during a league championship
‘299 and a wiggle’ proclaimed
tongue-in-cheek trophy
300 is the most you can score
His teammates gifted him
bowling pin
hand-painted with
Gramps’ caricature –
replete with cigarette dangling
from thin lips, slicked-back
jet-black hair, mischievous eyes
Like many of his immigrant ilk
my grandfather was a
voracious reader
that Christmas
shortly after bowling his 299
Gramps’ cousin
unsurprisingly gifted him a book
How to Bowl was opened
so I was told
to uproarious laughter
Gramps, smooth as Norsk custard
thanking his cousin
with a satisfied grin
kept the book in his bookcase
the next thirty years
caricature bowling pin on
living room floor next to it
When he died
one of my cousins got the pin
I kept the book
even though I have no use for
1947 World Bowling Champion
Ned Day’s advice on
etiquette toward my pin boy
what a Brooklyn Bucket is
difference between
‘pie alleys’ and ‘cheese-cakes’
Though I still love to bowl
I don’t very often, still
How to Bowl is always handy on
the small shelf above my desk
Where I can always pull it down
for quick brushing up on
arcane lingo, quirky phrasing
(all heard in my grandfather’s ‘tick’
Norwegian immigrant accent)
I can also grab How to Bowl
for more meaningful refreshers on
being able to have a
laugh at my own expense
appreciation of doing something well
and just how to always be the coolest
goddamn dude in the room
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2019
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
Shhhh
Hush, can you hear it?
Trickling water pierces the silence.
Run to the dock and don’t look back.
The cold concrete underneath my feet cools me down.
The adrenaline is running hot, like a pot of coffee about to spill over.
Moonbeams cut through the fog and light the path in front of us.
In front of us stands a large shadow, solid and wide, like a mighty fir.
Freeze.
A quiet and worried, “damn” dribbles from my mouth.
The moon sits on the peak of the mountain, like a book on a shelf.
My mouth goes dry, no way out.
A feeling of hopelessness washes over me, like being stuck in a desert with an empty canteen.
Shhhhh.
Run.
Transit to Freedom
A ceiling inches from my face
Hides the kitchen and my rocker,
Collapsed into a tidy bundle.
I turn carefully, legs cramped from stillness.
Another month or two, then, perhaps I’ll be free.
Are they gone? Am I too late to save
Only those that I love?
Or will I save us all?
I jump to a conclusion.
Surely their boundless evil knows no limits;
Or am I their sole exploitation,
Plucked at least a thousand times
By names nameless to me?
Are we really led by frogs and stalwart toads,
Blinded by tattered fabric, kept sewn by the votary public?
Put it to Bed
Is it early
Or is it late
Frankly I’ve lost
All track of time
Is the light
Streaming in
Sunbeams or moonbeams
The brain fog
Doesn’t even go away
With coffee
It merely allows
For concrete thoughts
Damn if I’m not
Ready to put this
Book to bed
Better yet
To see it upon the bookstore shelf
And listen to the hush
Finally
Within my mind
(Book 99 #19336)